^^ It's no wonder people don't make their own pumpkin pies.
Pumpkin #1 has stopped screaming.
Pumpkin #2 has begun sobbing.
It's a good thing I already know what a "food court" is, or I might be really worried about it.
They won't be able to testify against me later, which is why most of the #Thanksgiving ingredients are watching this saga play out live.
The onions have assured me that they're going to make me cry.
It has been ~7 hours since I drowned Fred, so I'm now 95% convinced that he's actually dead.
Also, that 5% is about 65% amusing, on average.
(That's just an estimate because turkeys are terrible at math.)
On my list of things to prepare for this year's #Thanksgiving:
Fred.
Pumpkin pie.
Mashed potatoes.
This recipe is pretty close to how I make them, which is why I only make them about once a year. 🧈🧈 #CoSoCooks
There Is Only One Difference Between OK Mashed Potatoes and Shockingly Good Ones
https://slate.com/human-interest/2023/11/mashed-potatoes-recipe-best-butter-butter-butter.html
It's been ~10 hours since I drowned Fred in an orange/rosemary/sage/thyme brine, which means he's getting even saltier than he was when I removed his spine.
Fred has absolutely zero influence over me, which should be obvious because he was the bestest most magnificent bird who ever lived.
(Fred is going to be delicious.)
Fred can't hypnotize me because he doesn't have any eyes.
At least, not until we eat him and potentially overdose on tryptophan.
¯\_(ツ)_/¯
Fred was placed in his last bath ever about 12 hours ago.
He hasn't moved at all, but that's probably because I had to twist him like a pretzel to get him into the stock pot.
Once upon a time, there was a happy turkey who lived an allegedly peaceful life on an open pasture.
At least, that's what the label said. Now he's crammed inside of a stock pot in my refrigerator, slowly becoming a different sort of happy.
Fred did not murder me in my sleep, which I am very thankful for.
At 27 pounds, I like to think that Fred had a turkey harem that followed him around and told him how mighty he was.
"What happened to Fred's harem?"
There's a non-zero chance that someone here has one of them in their own refrigerator.
Two weeks before Fred's demise, Farmer Johnson pulled him into his office. "I've got great news!"
Farmer Johnson no longer salivated during these conversations with the largest of his flock. He was practiced. Calm, cool, collected. "You're all going on a field trip to a magical place. It's an automated theme park that we call, 'The Great Beyond'. You'll love it!"
Fred was thrilled to hear this news, and happily took it back to his harem. When the trucks rolled up, they were thrilled to go. 🦃🪓
There's more to the story, but it's really quite sad. Fred and his harem sang turkey songs and told turkey stories all the way to the Great Beyond, between excited whispers of what it must be like. Harriett wanted to be carried from exhibit to exhibit. Tabitha was hoping for a deep exfoliation. Gretta was feeling a bit bloated from too much feed and had heard of a mystical turkey cleanse that left the insides feeling as crisp as cold air.
They'd all get their wish, in a way.
I apologize if this disturbed you, but try not to worry. The ending of Fred's story will be quite happy...
...for me.
On today's list:
1. Make pumpkin pie.
2. Prepare fresh herb butter.
3. Admire Fred.
Most people don't like to consider it, but turkeys did indeed have lives before they became the ritual sacrifice of the season.
The better those lives were, the more expensive they become.
With each passing hour I am increasingly convinced that Fred is actually dead.
I'm still being vigilant in the off chance that he isn't though.
My plan is to wield the stock pot lid like both a shield and cudgel if he should try to escape as I am putting him into the roasting pan. That'll be his last opportunity.
I'm sorry, but no. Fred cannot be in your band.
I am sure this is very disappointing.
He really does have the best drumsticks around.
It turned out that the flesh of one pumpkin was all that was needed to make a pair of pies, so I left the other unmurdered pumpkin on the counter so that it could see what became of its friend.
I think it'll stop sobbing once it smells what's cooking.
It's a pretty good way to go, as far as the demise of pumpkins goes. The rest of them basically rotted into nothing in a nearby forest.
Sixteen hours left until I remove Fred from his bath. After that he's getting an herb-butter massage.
Not long after that, he's going to quickly become a staunch believer in global warming.
I think we're going to call the oven a sauna so that he doesn't get too alarmed.
The herb butter has been prepared. For whatever reason, the tiny leaves aren't as sentient as the turkey or the pumpkins in the madness that passes for my imagination.
Probably because every time I work with them, this song is playing in my head.
It's a good thing the herbs don't have feelings. They were very seriously mutilated as part of the mincing process.
My hands smell like fresh herbs, which means that my hands smell delicious.
Which is more than a little weird, now that I put it like that.
I can see why fresh herbs aren't marketed as cologne.
😬
To this point, Fred has been prepared with love.
Also perhaps insanity, but mostly love.
Fred's big day has arrived. The first step is to wrestle him out of the stock pot. This is going to prove challenging, both because he's massive and because he probably really loves it in there.
It's a pretty nice stock pot, as far as stock pots go.
Well, Fred gets to stay in the stock pot, for now. These festivities are being transported to the in-laws, and it's as good a conveyance as anything.
@Alfred How long would it take to cook a 27 pound spatchcocked turkey on a V6 engine?
Yeah, I guess we'll just cook it when we get there.
Fred has been massaged and is now relaxing in a 400° sauna.
@kel I'm sure he'll be very happy for the rest of his existence.
